Leonardo's Fears
by Arkylie Killingstad
Summary: Troubled by their recent defeat at the hands of Shredder, Leonardo finds himself revisiting the fight, trying to figure out what he did wrong—to the point where he starts having trouble telling vision from reality.


_I wrote this piece back around college, so it's, what, twenty years old? It's one of the few that really holds up, I think, but don't take it as an example of my current writing._

* * *

The wind parted before the blades of his katana. The swish was calming to his ears. _Whit—swoosh_ —he breathed with his strokes, in through his nose, out through his mouth, in and out, in, out, air in time with his arms, arms in time with his torso, his heartbeat a strong counterpoint to the fluid movement of body, mind, and soul. _Power of the movements came from the body; power of the arms came from the shoulders_. He kept his stomach taut, his body steady and controlled, always controlled. _Balance is key; off-balance, the battle is lost._

Maybe it was that way in other battles as well. As he stepped through the same sequence of moves that he had practiced for five years—having passed through many other levels on his journey—tranquility spread through his body, through his mind, down to his soul. Strange that preparing for violence could bring peace. He'd been fighting too many battles lately, and not all were from the outside. Maybe they were sparked by the outside, but they went deeper, struck the linings of his soul, battered him from the inside out, and all he could really do was to think over things that he wished he had answers to.

It would have been nice to be like the others. Raph let his tensions out immediately, let everyone know how angry or upset or uneasy he felt; it made for a somewhat disagreeable attitude, but at least he never bottled anything up. Mikey didn't seem to let things bother him at all, and the few hurts that came his way were soft ones, that struck fast and melted away like a toddler's tears. Donnie spoke louder with his eyes than with his mouth, and his words, when he used them, were sometimes above the heads of the others, but it wasn't hard to figure out how he felt or to do something to ease him.

Maybe it was the control that he'd been working to master since he'd begun to tread the ninja's path, but Leo didn't feel right about letting his feelings spill over onto his brothers—or anyone else. And he couldn't laugh them off or just hint that they were there and hope that someone would comfort him. In many ways, his mind was his prison, keeping him separate from the others, a stranger when he could have been a friend. Even Master Splinter, who saw with the clearest of eyes, seemed to miss the most important parts of him. It was his own fault, and Leo knew it well: He couldn't blame his master for not noticing what he tried so hard to hide from everyone, his master included. But letting it out… speaking up… it seemed so much like complaining. If he couldn't deal with his problems on his own, why should he be the leader? He was supposed to be a little bit better than the others, a little wiser, an example to follow. He was supposed to be the strongest, to have the best sense of where he was going and how to get there. Maybe he should tell them that he didn't have a clue. Was saving face worth endangering the team?

He was swinging too fast, with too little control. He realized it and corrected quickly, returning to the right pattern. One foot under his weight at all times. _Move the weight before you move the feet_. Balance was always the key; you could not be brought down if you were strong enough and your balance was right, but power meant nothing if you didn't use it correctly. Where was the power to fight the doubts that strutted up and down his mind, poking into every stronghold as they went? His faith in his own abilities collapsed like a bubble went the doubts poked at it. His belief that good was inherently stronger than evil—gone. He could not even trust that his brothers would be there for him, for where were they now? Where it counted, he was on his own, and he would have to lean on his own shoulder, aching as it was from the weight of three who, unlike him, did not rely on their own strength, not all the time. They leaned on each other, leaned on Master Splinter, leaned on _him_ , and somehow pulled together a greater strength than they could manage on their own. As yet, Leo did not understand it, and he feared that he never would.

There was the doubt again, doubt inside fear. He pushed his thought back into the routine, but the doubt refused to leave. His rhythm changed, the tempo increasing slowly until he was slicing through the air faster than he would even in heated combat. And he couldn't slow down; the doubt was driving him to anger, anger at himself, anger that he was trying to kill with twin katana blades. His eyes were open, but he saw darkness closing in around him, a storm cloud that faded the tatami room to nothingness. He was in space, space without stars, attacking an invisible opponent with silver swords.

He spun around and protested, "I'm not angry!"

Mikey held up both hands, a generous slice of pizza in one. "I never said you were!" His gentle eyes were wide, not with fear but definitely with surprise.

Leo blinked and slowly pulled his katanas back from Mikey's throat. Fear closed in on him, smothering him like a blanket. He hadn't even realized that Mikey was there. But there had been a voice, taunting him from the darkness, asking him… if he was angry. And he had spun around to attack it too… he could have stabbed his brother. With his katana. Right through the throat. Choking on the thought, he mechanically sheathed his weapons and walked slowly out of the room.

"Hey," Mikey called after him, "I thought we were gonna practice!"

"Not… not now," Leo shot back, the image of his swords interplayed on an image of Mikey's throat. "I… I need to cool down a bit, I think."

Mikey's laughter followed him. "Cool down… hey, that's good! Aren't we already cold-blooded?"

 _Killer_ … the word rushed past his defenses and stabbed him. He felt, unreasoningly, like hiding behind the couch, except that the couch was actually in the middle of the room and offered no hiding place at all. He hadn't noticed until now, but he was gasping, noiselessly, chest-breathing instead of pulling in air with his diaphragm like he was supposed to. When was the last time he had chest-breathed? He couldn't remember if he ever had. It was harder and provided less air; chest-breathing was death to a serious athlete, let alone a ninja whose life actually depended on his physical performance. It took a while to push the control down into his stomach again, but he regained the slow, measured breaths of the trained warrior.

Bypassing Raph and Donnie, who were discussing—actually, arguing over—April's latest news clip, Leo slipped into the bedroom and pulled out his katana to inspect them. His life depended on his weapons being where he thought they would be when he moved them, and his first act in getting ready for bed was to check for even the most minute imperfection, to make sure that they were clean, polished, and whole, and that no crack or blemish would change their performance for the next day. His mind flashed back to the first second after his eyes had cleared—his katana, Mikey's throat. He could see the blood dripping from the grooves that ran the length of his blades. Shuddering, he hung them up and climbed into his bunk, pulled the covers up to his neck, and lay shaking, unable to really put the image out of his mind.

* * *

Pizza for breakfast—Leonardo ate slowly, while the others scarfed. Whipped-cream pizza tasted horribly sweet this morning, and he left it half-finished on his plate. The others didn't seem to notice; in fact, Mikey picked up and finished the rest of Leo's slice before Leo had gotten up from the table.

Running his fingers along the edges of his katana—katana that, after his long night's sleep, no longer had imagined blood dripping from them—Leo stared at the tatami room where Master Splinter silently meditated. Soon enough, the turtles would be practicing there again. He didn't want to, but neither did he want to discuss what had happened last night. If he tried to make up some excuse for not sparring, Master Splinter would see through him; Master Splinter saw everything. No—not everything—not some of the most important things, but he saw enough. Sooner or later, he would want an explanation, probably that very night, or even that very hour. And Leonardo did not have one to give. Not one that sounded sane.

He swallowed and worked his mind around the idea. There were other ways to approach problems.

* * *

"The thing is that we may not always have our weapons. We should be ready to fight with any weapons we come across. I really think it's important."

"You want me to let you use my sai?" Raphael glared at Leonardo, who held up his hands.

"It's only a suggestion. You have to think this way."

"Hey, I don't mind teaching you my nunchucks." Mikey chuckled. "No way you'd get them right straight off—and it'd sure be a laugh watching you. I'd even lay bets on how many times you'd hit yourself!"

Donnie grimaced. "You realize that there's an art to using a bo. It's not just another old stick you'd find lying around. Takes a lot of work to master it."

"My sons," intoned Master Splinter, and everyone stopped to listen. "Leonardo speaks wisely. You may not always have the tools you are most familiar with. While you should still practice to be the best at your own, it is prudent to understand how the other weapons work. For now, I think, it will be blades against blades, wood against wood."

They paired up, not too happy with their weapons. Leonardo did not like to see his katana in the hands of another, but it was better that they were not in his hands just now. He held Raphael's sai awkwardly and parried an equally awkward swing of the sword. "It's not a broadsword, Raph," he explained, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

"So sue me, Leo. I was up all night watching a King Arthur marathon."

"Isn't it more like fencing?" Michelangelo asked before getting hit on the head with a nunchuck.

Leonardo kept his attention on his own battle. It was difficult to work with the tiny tri-blades, especially dividing his attention between two hands. Much worse was dividing his already divided attention between his side of the battle and Raphael's inept handling of the blades Leonardo valued equal to his own life. To teach and learn at once was not more than he could handle, but he had to take it slow. He blocked everything that came at him, but was frustrated by the short range of his borrowed weapons. Yet Raphael certainly did not throw them often, and Leonardo was not sure how to throw them besides. Had Raphael ever faced an opponent who was wielding swords?

Leonardo knew, at least, the range of his real weapons and stayed well outside it, carefully stepping around his brother and trying not to telegraph his own moves. He had to imagine that Raphael was no worse with the swords than their original owner was, or he wouldn't be preparing properly. Was there a weakness in his own traditional strategy? As he redirected Raphael's few weak stabs, he fought a second battle in his mind, playing out the last battle he could remember, a battle against Shredder. The others had been there, fighting Foot soldiers; Leonardo had faced his master's enemy all but alone. He'd been in top form because he had had to be, and even that had not brought Shredder near to defeat. When it came down to it, Shredder's techniques were every bit as good as Splinter's were; the difference, and the reason that Shredder had so often defeated Splinter but never kept him for long, was that Splinter chose friends, and Shredder collected minions. Minions were only as strong as their fear; friends were stronger than their own courage, because they had something to fight for, and because they could bolster each other along the way.

Was that his problem? Had he been forgetting that he and his brothers were meant to be friends—meant to solve problems as a team, a complete unit? No part holding back from the others, so that all parts had everything they needed? He pushed the theory into the back of his mind to think about later, when he wasn't being pushed backwards by a clumsy pair of katana-wielding hands. He slipped around behind Raphael, but Raphael turned too quickly for Leonardo to push his momentary advantage, especially with such unfamiliar weapons. Something hit him in the head, sending a crack of pain behind his eyes.

"Ooh, sorry," said Donatello. "I'm just not used to these things. You okay?"

"Don't you dare say you're hurt, Leo. This is the first time I've been on top, fighting you, and I'm not going to let you cop out now."

Shredder leered into his face. "You can't win, turtle. Go back to your rat and his hole. You know you're no match for me. You just don't like to lose."

"Neither do you," Leonardo returned, not letting up his attack. Where was the weak point? When had Shredder won, that day? Splinter had taught Leonardo that a battle may be decided before it even starts. Had it been like that, that day? Or could Leonardo have won if he had done something different? Razor-bladed shards of metal whistled next to his ear; he dove, twisted as much as he could and barely avoided another angered blow. Then he was on his feet again, behind Shredder—only his move was anticipated, and as his katana came down—

He ducked under the katana and leapt for the throat of his enemy, his weight taking them down to the floor and driving his short blades right into the—

—tatami where Raphael's head had been. He froze. Raphael was shouting at him from inside his shell, annoyed; Leonardo couldn't hear the words through the rushing sound in his ears. Michelangelo and Donatello were staring at him, their fight forgotten. Leonardo's breath caught.

Splinter touched Leonardo's shoulder. "Well done, my son. It is clear that you could best the battle no matter what weapon you found yourself holding. But you must be careful that you do not hurt your brother."

The words were distant against the thick beat of his heart. He pulled his arm back and watched Raphael's head pop out. Slowly, he set the sai on the tatami and got up. Raphael snatched up his weapons and stiffly handed the katana back to their owner, then stalked off. Leonardo softly sheathed his blades, his hands shaking.

* * *

 _I grew up on the original cartoon—the one that turned the comic's nearly interchangeable turtles into the iconic team with distinctive colors and personalities, and whose theme song shall never be matched._

 _Somewhere around college, I put together big plans for a piece based on the cartoon, only much more angsty (not that I knew the term at the time). It'll never happen now; I'm far beyond that mindset, and busy with other fandoms besides. But I think this was meant to be the start of it, the unraveling of each character to put them in the right mindset for change, for growth._

 _In my vague recollection of those plans, I recall one turtle—maybe Donnie or Raph—getting fed up with trying to save people who kept spitting in his face, so his "journey of change" was to experience a world (maybe an AU, or dimensional travel, or just a dream) where they let people get hurt instead of protecting them. The only other piece was that Leo brought back a lesson to teach to the rest, and they had some sort of big fight with Master Splinter, who wouldn't yield over some important point._

 _If you'd like to see the kind of vibe I was going for, well, if you can handle dark and creepy angst, you might try to hunt down the webcomic called_ Mutant Ninja Turtles Gaiden _. I can't say that I would've gone that dark myself, but when I happened across that webcomic, it felt a bit like finding the thing that I'd been trying to create all those years ago._


End file.
